


the world is big enough without you

by Mavrick



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Processing Trauma, Swallowing Bitter Pills, Time Travel, Vanya Being There For Herself, Vanya Loving Hours, Vanya Taking Care of Vanya, Vanyacest, ha ha ha see what i did there?, not actually but only if you're a coward, nothing is crack if you take it seriously, so i guess you can say this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mavrick/pseuds/Mavrick
Summary: Pil·grim·age:a journey, often into an unknown or foreign place, where a person goes in search of new or expanded meaning about their self, others, nature, or a higher good, through the experience.On a mission to literally find their place in the greater universe, Vanya travels back to when and where it all began.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy/Vanya Hargreeves, Vanya Hargreeves & Everyone, Vanya Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 19
Kudos: 132





	1. March 22 | 22:07

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know. I'm writing this out to get it out of my head so I can work on the fic I actually want to work on. I'm gonna update this as often and quickly as I can to get it over with so that means shorter chapters in more frequent updates but absolutely not proofread.

The first time she’d come back to the Umbrella Academy for her adoptive father’s funeral had been different.

She can still remember it clearly: she had opted to walk home instead of calling a cab after a rejected audition, the way she did when she needed to clear her head. She had been so caught up with reviewing the piece she performed over and over again in her head that she almost missed how the line of stores leading up to her apartment all tuned in to the same breaking news of Sir Reginald Hargreeves’s death.

She hadn’t felt much of anything in the days prior until that moment.

Despite it all, she had been devastated. Everything up until that point had still held the hope—an almost non-existent  _ sliver _ of a chance—that she could at least get him to perform on stage and be...not  _ proud _ . From her perspective, it had been too late for that. She could have never garnered his respect and putting her autobiography out into the world surely hadn’t helped with that. 

But she had hoped. 

Oh, how she hoped. 

Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, she had still been clinging to the hope that she would at least be  _ acknowledged _ . That she wouldn’t be just another ghost to be put away neatly on the shelf.

When she had arrived at the Academy, it made her feel wrong-footed in all the worst ways. Every part of it had made her feel out-of-place and unworthy, like loitering in a pantheon. Only the gods could grace it with their presence. She’d shuffled back and forth on the stairs, a tourist lost in the monument of her own childhood home.

But now?

After all these years, she looked at the grand marble columns and the gilded portraits and the taxidermy on display and thought of how  _ empty  _ it all was.

Devoid of the sounds of footsteps and laughter and hushed conversations, the Umbrella Academy was more of an institution than anyone’s home. A museum dedicated to the fleeting memory of the most formative—and damaging—years of their lives.

She’s twelve paces in when runs into Diego, who was fixing his harness while going down the stairs. It takes a while for him to realize who she is and so she could see how his expression transformed from confusion to anger when recognition hit him.

He glares down at her, like the hound of Hades guarding the gates of hell.

“You don’t belong here. Not after what you did,” he says, hackles raised.

“Is this the Umbrella Academy?” She hadn’t bothered to check before barging in and this timeline was so reminiscent of her original one. It was a good sign but she can’t afford to take chances with this one.

He narrows his eyes at her, distrust coloring his gaze slightly more than his confusion.

“What, I thought you were the  _ expert _ ?” He spits the last word at her with venom.

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

His hair was still short here, she noticed. A crew cut that made his dorky ears stick out and barely any stubble. He’d grown to favor keeping his hair long in the future, after the time he spent in that institution. Vanya thought it suited him more. He didn’t look nearly as peaceful as his counterpart but Vanya supposed she was glad that he hasn’t experienced the losses he had yet.

“It’s good to see you,” she tells him. It throws him out for a loop and she could see his glare thaw out for a bit. 

Her brother turns away from her, pointedly dismissing her the way he used to when they were kids. 

“Whatever. You shouldn’t be here,” he says, more to himself this time as he passes by her.

He has a duffel bag with him and she could only guess what he was up to at this time of the night. She doubts she’d run into him again any time soon and breathes a little easier at the thought.

It doesn’t bother her as much as it used to but it was still uncomfortable to be the receiving end of constant animosity.

She has to prepare herself for that and not just from Diego. 

All their childhood ghosts and demons haunted every nook of this house. She had blood on her hands. No one else in this timeline knew what was coming for them. These were the thoughts that accompanied her as she made her way through the rest of the house.

But that’s okay. She’ll be fine.

She would brave through it because she  _ isn’t  _ a tourist.

She’s a pilgrim.


	2. March 22 | 22:45

Any other family would have been spending this time worrying about will readings and splitting inheritance. Old arguments over who was most entitled to which things due to how they spent their time with the deceased, who would take over management of the family business—pedestrian things that gave birth to land ownership disputes and possibly a heartwrenching lawsuit that ended with fractured family ties that would be forgiven in time (or not) and passive-aggressively be brought up in future family functions.

With  _ her _ family, she’s worried about the stability of this strain of the timeline and how to prepare for the impending accusations of murder.

Granted, that last one wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it sounded. In fact, it had almost slipped her mind entirely up until she ran into Grace.

The house had been the same as she remembered from her time here, with the exception of a few new books on the shelves and the odd rearrangement of furniture. The Umbrella Academy memorabilia still decorated the walls, and there, just up the first flight of stairs, facing timeless back-lit landscapes, was—

“Mom,” Vanya breathes out.

Much like the last time she’d been here, Grace doesn’t seem to register her presence. The android’s expression remains pleasantly vacant, her hands folded neatly on her lap as she stared at nothing in particular.

She’s like the picture of her childhood come to life.

You see, there is a time in every child’s life where they cling to a constant companion. Girls would get dolls and cling to the hem of their mother’s skirt. Little Number Seven, in this regard, got Grace. Grace was perfect in every way that reminded her of the dolls that daytime T.V. commercials try to get little girls to want. Perfect golden curls with a set of neatly trimmed clothes to emphasize her doll-like silhouette. An open face. She even sang on command.

Growing up, she was the only constant figure in her life. It grew to annoy her on some days when the only people that would bother talking to her weren’t even human, but she’d had her share of days when the pre-programmed sympathy and light banter of her caretaker had been the only consolation she could get. At the time, she’d thought of her as hers.

Years later, she found out she was.

She never told anyone that. Not even Diego.

_ Especially  _ not Diego.

She used to find it funny that Grace was the warmer than her own father. Still, Vanya could never shake the feeling—the  _ necessity _ of genuine feelings. She’d always liked the idea that maybe it had been Reginald behind her words all along.

Her father was many things. He was a terrible man. A brilliant man. Sensible. Thoughtful in his cruelty.

This was the doll her daddy made just for her, in lieu of actual affection.

( _ I've made a secret place just for you. _ )

Maybe it was because of this that she had been so pissed over what she thought was them secretly going behind her back and turning Grace off. It was like her room; by that age, she didn’t really need nor use it. More importantly? One of her siblings wanted it more.

So she didn’t fight for it.

She could have.

Sometimes she wonders what would have happened if she were a little more selfish.

( _ None of your siblings get to play there. _ )

But how could she? Diego loved Grace. He was mindful of her even more than he was with Vanya. Some days, their robot mother had been the only thing that kept him civil with her.

( _ Would you like to see it? _ )

“Hi, Mom,” she says, placing a gentle hand on her arm to get her attention.

“Vanya,” Grace smiles slowly in recognition like she’s genuinely happy to see her. Blue eyes roam her face, protocols no doubt already kicking in and updating her ever-present itinerary.

“Is something the matter? You look upset. I’ll make you some cookies,” she says, already getting up from the chesterfield before Vanya stopped her.

“No, it’s okay, Mom,” she assures her.

“Oh.” Grace nods to herself and doesn’t press the way she would normally have before. Where in the past she would have tried to find some way to comfort her or resolve the issue, now she seemed lost over what to do.

It made Vanya feel guilty.

( _ She used to feel so much guilt — _ )

“I’m sorry,” she says.

They had been a pair. A part of a set. The only permanent fixtures in the house, treated much like furniture. It had been her and Grace and Po—

“I should have paid more attention,” she tells her because it’s easier.

_ We left you here to collect dust. All of us got out except for you _ , she leaves out.

Grace’s smile falters, struggling to keep it plastered across her face. For a moment, Vanya’s afraid she’s lost her again. She wonders if it’s too subtle a thing for Grace to process. If she could honestly hear the question she didn’t voice out.

How silly of her. She was all wax and wires. There was no way she could.

Grace turns her beatific smile to the portraits and asks her: “Were you lonely?”

_ But she evolved _ , she could hear Diego admonishing her in a voice that conveyed all the tone of  _ I told you so _ .

Vanya nods. “I was. I’m doing better now, though.”

Was it possible that after all those years alone, Grace finally understood how it felt? What a miserable thing to learn.

“That’s good to hear, honey” and the way her hands wrap around her smaller ones makes it easy to believe her. Then again, positive reinforcement had always worked the best with her. It felt familiar, even if it did seem hollow.

( _ You have to take your medicine like a good girl _ )

( _ It'll help calm your nerves _ )

( _ Sounds beautiful, Vanya _ )

She needs to manage her cynicism. She promised she’d try and it was easy enough to realize how little voice Grace had.

She was a doll, after all.

“How about you? Are you…are you okay?” God, she’s out of practice. How do you ask about a robot’s feelings without sounding insincere?

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

_ Because you’re not yourself. I saw that, the first time around. And I didn’t say anything. _

“Everything is fine. You sound just like Diego. He’s always been a sweet boy, just like you.”

She halts in her tracks, expression flickering in the briefest moments whenever she was processing something for them, but in a jerky manner, unlike the smooth, curt way she delivered her reports in.

“He’s always trying. So hard. Why, he’s been here since twenty-one forty-three! Drove straight from the gym so he could—”

And it was like a fog lifted from her eyes.

“You must be tired. I’ll go bring your things to your room.” Vanya doesn’t protest when Grace moves to grab one of the bags she’d been carrying with her.

“…my room is gone, Mom. Remember?” She reminds her.

“Oh. That’s right,” Grace says, stopping in her tracks. She turned at her heel to look back at her, expression oddly distressed.

“But where will you go?” She asks, voice dipping into hysterical before leveling out to her usual matter-of-fact, mother-hen cadence. “It’s dark outside. Ordinary girls shouldn’t be all alone while it’s dark outside.”

“It’s fine, Mom. I can stay at Five’s room. Okay?”

At the sound of his name, Grace’s expression grows soft.

“He’ll come around, sweetie,” she says, giving Vanya’s arm a gentle squeeze as if she were still sixteen and keeping her nightly vigils for him. “We just have to be patient, but he’ll come when he’s ready. You don’t have to stay up. Growing girls need their sleep.”

He would. She knows this now for a fact. But she isn’t supposed to (not yet, at least) so she says the same thing she always used to when Grace caught her sulking in his room past curfew.

“I know, Mom. Just five more minutes and then I’ll go to bed.”

Diego never got around to telling them what happened until much, much later. At first, Vanya wasn’t even aware that Grace had been up and about when she tore the building apart. Not that it would have made much of a difference but on good days she likes to think that it would have given her pause.

And Diego.

She isn’t fooling herself into thinking she could wave away all the hurt between this version of themselves. They had a lot to work out.

Of course, the amnesia had helped in her case. Otherwise, she imagines it would have taken a lot longer for either of them to lower their defenses enough to stay in the same room for more than five minutes.

It used to drive them mad—back when they were young and still talking to each other—when she would be difficult over things she believed in. And as a child, Diego’s way of dealing with his anger was through loud-mouthed shunning. But as loud as he was with his anger, he was quick to relent, and most of them had learned that it was easier to just back down to appease him and all would be well until the next time someone earned his ire.

But she held grudges. She wanted things in a particular way and could be very hard-headed. She can admit that now.

The Hargreeves were always such a stubborn bunch and Vanya was no exception.


	3. March 22 | 22:57

She’s stalling.

She can feel him there, waiting by the staircase leading up to their old rooms. Theirs, not hers.

She doesn’t need to look up to know he’d been watching her patiently from the shadowy corners of the mezzanine. She knows he’s probably spotted her a mile away while she had been talking to Grace and it was almost embarrassing how self-conscious she gets. After all, it’s not like she didn’t know he’d be here. She knew what she needed to do but she still needed a…a _moment_ to collect herself. No amount of preparation could ever get rid of her nerves completely, and right now she didn’t feel anywhere remotely close to ready for a conversation with Pogo.

If she waits until she’s ready, though, she knew she’d be waiting forever, and that can’t happen. She’s here for a greater reason than her own fears and that is what she chants to herself in her head to keep her stride steady.

She measures her steps, listening to the sound her feet make as she threads on polished wooden floors, and distracts herself with her surroundings. She lets her hand glide along the banister leading up to their old rooms, where she faintly recalls peering down her siblings from in envy as they were kept busy throughout the day. She can see stars from the patches of the night sky the windows allowed, but only barely, and remembers the way they only ever seemed to get faint impressions of sunlight in the afternoon because these windows faced west. She thinks about how much of her childhood had been shaped by the architecture around her.

You see, architecture is a powerful thing.

High, vaulted ceilings can make you feel dwarfed by the structure. An abundance of natural sunlight let in by well-placed windows can make you feel safe and warm while the utter lack thereof has the potential for melancholy and maybe even depression during the colder seasons, making it feel like the world is closing in on you. It can tell you your place without having to utter a single word.

There’s also the timelessness of the buildings themselves.

Unlike people, who always change from moment to moment, there’s something about the permanence of a building that makes it somehow exempt from time. It’s easier to grasp the depth of change by how a building expands or corrodes or turns to rubble within a week, a month, or a century. Because even if you as a person make changes to your personality or appearance or living arrangements or social circles and leave or stay in one spot or another, buildings stay rooted. Life happens _around_ and _within_ the building, but the foundations stay the same. So the moment you step into the threshold of your old house or your old school (for Vanya it was both), much of it is held up by the same walls that watched you grow while you were still in it. It’s all too easy to be reminded of its hallowed traditions like you’re ten again and you’re not supposed to wear your shoes inside.

Buildings remember your history. It holds on to memories even long after its people are gone. It’s why we feel the loss when old buildings get torn down. Watching towering fixtures that have existed long before you were born get knocked down brick by brick, you’d wonder how something as seemingly immortal as these stone-wrought witnesses could be moved. When throughout the known history of humankind it’s the remnants of concrete that eventually become the only way the past could reach its stories to us.

Walls remember your secrets and Vanya could feel hers clamoring violently from all sides.

“Miss Vanya,” he greets her regally. Unlike her father, it was always _Miss_ Vanya with him. As a child, she’d been pleased the first time he did so because it made her feel dignified, being talked to like she was a proper lady of equal stature.

“Pogo,” she acknowledges. The old chimp bows his head at her, despite not being tall enough to peer down at her for a long time.

It’s like stepping into the theater. Their house was the long-forgotten stage. Now, they’re slipping into their roles.

“So good to see you,” he says and while she doesn’t move in for a hug, she does return his polite smile.

“I’m afraid I had to attend to Master Diego for a while, otherwise I would have been here to receive you. My apologies,” he says, folding his hands over his walking cane.

“That’s okay. I ran into him earlier but he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me,” she replies, lip curling in a wry smile.

“Ah, yes. Your autobiography.” He’s careful to keep his tone casual but he makes no move to push the conversation further.

Looking at this version of Pogo, she remembers the way she’d felt when she first noticed the grey mixing in his fur. As steady a presence he’d been, it had felt almost disquieting. Pogo was as much of a constant presence in their lives as Grace had been, and Grace (with her body designed to last and her consciousness not without its fail-safes) is the same kind of immortal as the house they had lived in. They weren’t supposed to age the way Vanya and her siblings did. They weren’t allowed to be touched by time.

She knows better now, though. Time changes everything. Empires fall and entire civilizations disappear. The Hargreeves mansion had been a powerful Titan and she was the god-killer that brought it down to its knees.

It’s not like she hasn’t met Pogo since it happened. It’s just that being here with _this_ version of him—the one who’s all benevolent smiles and denial—makes it seem as if no time has passed at all. That none of the changes she’s gone through has happened. (And in a way, it hasn’t.) He stares at her with no odd mix of worry or guilt or sorrow or disinterest because this Pogo has no idea that the last time she’d been at this exact spot with him, she’d left him hanging on her father’s taxidermied trophies by his ribcage.

Because the thing about Pogo is that it had been personal. It had been the same rage she had felt when she’d pinned Leonard to the air and made him feel the same stabbing pain his words and actions inflicted on her. It wasn’t just an act of rebellion; it had been the spirit of making your abusers _hurt_.

Pogo was different from Grace because as much as she liked Grace and knew, objectively, that she was just as involved as he had been, she knew that she was a puppet. An instrument used by her father to care for them and make sure Vanya didn’t accidentally kill one of her siblings over the last slice of pizza.

But Pogo?

He might have been another instrument but he went willingly.

Learning his hand in what happened to her had felt like the ultimate betrayal that eclipsed everything else. Finding out that her family had known and done nothing to help her out of what her father had built for her—both in a figurative and literal sense—had been what broke her. That somehow it was _her_ shame and _her_ shortcomings that had to _never_ see the light of day. Never heard. Never spoken out loud.

It had made her feel small and out of place and wrong and broken and _everything_ that she’s had to unlearn.

But she’s had years.

She’s had years and she was, at the very least, willing to admit that as with everything with their family, nothing was black and white for them.

She pauses and for a moment forgets that this was in her past. _Her_ past, at least. She lets herself feel the last echoes of her rage.

Then, she takes a deep breath and soldiers on.

“Did you ever read it?”

He nods.

“I did.”

“What did you think of it?” She tries not to look at either him or the walls for too long.

Vanya could feel his eyes on her, watching her like she was a field full of landmines.

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “your father had only wanted what was best for you. Even if it didn’t always feel that way.” He shakes his head gravely as he says this, like they were sharing the same resignation to their fates.

Vanya doesn’t say a word but she’s sure there must be some sort of tell in her expression because Pogo doesn’t let go.

“He was never the nurturing type—”

He shoots her a stern yet imploring look when she scoffs.

“—but raising children is a difficult feat for even ordinary families. Why, I can remember an unfortunate incident with Mr. Snuggles.”

She remembers the first weeks after they left Dallas, when Allison had mourned the loss of her child twice-over. She had still been missing most of her memories and her sister felt like they could both use some space away from the chaos that was their family, so they’d snuck into the garage and stole away with one of Hargreeves’s cars.

They drove through the city, pointing out changes in the would-be familiar streets and Vanya listened to her sister vent. Allison caught her up with broad strokes of her past and in exchange, Vanya would tell her about the things both of them were surprised she picked up. It had felt much like introducing themselves to each other again.

Claire, her sister told her, used to have epic meltdowns as a kid. After everything that had happened, she said that it reminded her of Vanya and that despite everything, she feared that she had been too much like their father in raising her own child.

And more and more Vanya would remember fragments of her past. She used to tear through walls and wouldn’t eat. She had to be coaxed to finish her breakfast and would act out when pressed to do things she didn’t like.

_It wasn’t your fault_ , Allison had told her. _You were a child. You were supposed to act out. It’s part of being a kid._

One time when they were eight, the others were playing a game. She had wanted to play with them so much but she didn’t want to leave her teddy bear behind. She argued that she could run perfectly fine with it but Diego told her that she couldn’t play with them anyway because it was for older kids and older kids didn’t bring their teddy bears with them.

They ended up going to the playground without her and she’d been so upset she threw one of Diego’s knifes clean through her poor Mr. Snuggles’s eye. It had caused a stir among them, the other kids believing that caustic Number Two was picking on little Number Seven.

And maybe Pogo was right but it doesn’t make it feel any less patronizing. She doesn’t think it’s intentional but he talks to her like she’s still a child that doesn’t know any better and it rubs her wrong.

Vanya had spent a lot of time hiding and she knows when someone else is doing it, too. Just like she had before, Pogo was hiding behind her father’s words. Her father’s beliefs. It wasn’t his idea, so he can wash his hands off the guilt. He wasn’t pulling, except he was, but he disagreed with the bad feeling that came with it so it detaches him from his involvement in her abuse.

Ah, but that can’t stand.

There is no hiding here. Dad is dead and the walls are closing in.

“Yeah, well. Maybe if he didn’t keep me locked up I wouldn’t have felt the need to destroy things,” she says pointedly.

It hits its mark, she knows, by how her old guardian’s expression crumbled. Shame tugged at the edges of his eyes and it, too, is such an old friend that Vanya has to stomp down the one creeping up through her.

She sighs.

“But I wasn’t asking about dad,” she breaks the palpable silence between them. “I want to know what you think.”

An inch. _I’ll try if you do,_ she doesn’t say.

“They’ll come around,” comes the immediate reply. “They’re your family.”

“Although, I must say I do look fondly back at the story of Mr. Snuggles’s recovery. I was looking forward to that one,” he adds, trying for a lighter tone.

Vanya smiles.

“Oh, I tried, but for some reason my editor didn’t think the nuances of anatomically-correct stuffed toys was gripping enough for a tell-all bookseller,” she says, rolling her eyes.

He continues to make small talk because it’s easy for him to mistake her own guilt and skittishness around him as something that stems from the release of her book. And maybe he _does_ have enough pieces to see through the double-entendres but he doesn’t have the whole picture the way she does.

“Right, well,” he says when the silence draws out too long between them. “Don’t let me keep you. You’ll find that Number Five’s room is still well-cared for.” He must have overheard her conversation with Grace, she thinks, and wonders at how she’s forgotten about how easily their voices carry in the halls.

“Grace makes sure to change the linens every week.” He tells her like he was offering an olive branch. Even without her having to tell him, he’d always known how close she’d kept her brother’s disappearance to heart.

“You don’t mind, do you? I just really need to get off my feet and I don’t have it in me to book a hotel at this hour,” she says sheepishly.

“This is your home. You are always welcome here,” he tells her firmly. She doesn’t bother to correct him.

To be honest, she didn’t need his permission and would have done so either way, but it was nice to hear it from someone else.

“Thank God,” she says like she hadn’t just tested him. “The jet lag’s killing me.”

“Long flight?”

She lets out a small laugh and the air gets easier to breathe in.

“Something like that.”

She loves Pogo. He had been almost a surrogate for her father’s love that it had been difficult to see him as an individual. Someone who had priorities outside of herself and which would always— _always_ —come before her.

As a child, he was perfect. He could do no harm. He was the one that kept Mr. Snuggles’s actual assailant secret. He calmed down her crying spells with ice cream and the promise that they could still fix what she broke because in her brief moment of rage she forgot how much she loves her teddy bear and had been beside herself. He’d teach her how to stitch him back up, just like surgery, and make her feel special because none of the other kids know how to patch the pieces together flawlessly with a slip stitch, see? Like the cut had never been there.

As a teenager, she had started to suspect that it wasn’t just _her_ secrets he would keep. That was when she started to notice all the flaws so clearly.

And as an adult?

It was difficult to accept that he was just a person, capable of mistakes and not minding the damage he did like the rest of them.

How would she have handled raising someone like her? Someone like Claire or Harlan or Carla? From what she’d seen, it was like there was no such thing as a good parent.

Maybe there isn’t. Maybe there is. Maybe the gods bless you with omniscience the moment you become a parent but it’s a rigged lottery where no one could agree what the numbers are and what the prize was.

Or maybe that was giving the Hargreeves too much credit but that didn’t mean she’s going to accept it without any qualms.

Just because the stitches are clean doesn’t mean the cut didn’t happen.

_“It wasn’t that bad.”_

_“You are so lucky!”_

_“Aren’t you, like, Rich? Capital ‘R’-Rich? Live-in-a-mansion-Rich? What can you possibly have to whine about?”_

Just because it wasn’t as bad as it could have been doesn’t mean it wasn’t abuse. It doesn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. The damage Pogo and her father had done had been real to her and for the longest time it had isolated her from the rest of her family, her peers, and anyone she’d ever tried to form some kind of connection with.

So here’s a lesson she’s learned from her world-weary years of being a Hargreeves: every single person that hits the age of thirty is just trying to undo the damage someone else did to them. And you try to limit it but sometimes the best you can do is to learn how to deal with the aftermath to the best of your abilities.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and y'all thought this was crack ( ͡° ͜ ʖ ͡° )
> 
> I was going to write this chapter yesterday but it was my birthday and thinking about how Vanya didn't really get closure with what happened with Pogo didn't make me a particularly enthusiastic celebrant so I put it on pause. This fic is ridiculous, btw. I just want to get to the Vanyacest but there's all this trauma you have to wade through and you think it'll be a short snippet but noooo here's another additional 1k to write instead of your other fic (which, ironically, I put off because Pogo was giving me trouble for the next chapter. whoops). 
> 
> Also: Fiveya week is a thing! Not part of it but listen if the spirit of Fiveya moves you, here's some info from https://fivevanya.tumblr.com/ for round two:
> 
> Fiveya week is a week to create fanwork surrounding Fiveya (fics, art, vids, moodboards, playlists, fan edits, etc). Anything goes (platonic or romantic pairings are okay but Five and Vanya have to be the central dynamic) and if there are any nsfw or potentially triggering themes, be sure to tag and warn accordingly!
> 
> The list of prompts includes:  
> Day 1: Memories  
> Day 2: Dancing/Training  
> Day 3: Childhood  
> Day 4: Sparrow Academy AU  
> Day 5: Guilt  
> Day 6: Endings/Beginnings  
> Day 7: Free Choice!
> 
> (if you want more info just follow the fivevanya tumblr and have fun!)


	4. March 23 | 00:57

The walk to Five’s room feels longer than it should be.

She doesn’t hurry past the second floor, where most of her siblings’ rooms had been. There are twelve steps between the mezzanine and their bedrooms and twelve more before she can reach Five’s and she deliberately slows down her pace and counts each of them.

She doesn’t hurry past but she doesn’t dwell, either.

It almost feels like a procession. From the moment she stepped foot into the place, she’d felt like a sinner, stripped naked and made to walk through the village square in atonement for her wrongdoings. Every step is an act of contrition. Every shadowy glare from the portraits, the trophies, _the walls_ is a part of her penance.

There was humiliation and rage and discomfort but all there is to do is to hold her chin up while she closed the gap between the landings.

The last time she had been down there, she’d torn the cement from the walls.

One of the clearest memories she has was the moment she crossed the invisible **_DO NOT CROSS_ ** line between her and the second floor. It had thrilled her to be able to take down something so great. Something so grand that took years to build up. Knowing that she could single-handedly take something that seemed so immovable was…it had been like setting fire to Pompeii.

But the third floor? Hallowed grounds.

Five’s room had always been sacred. When they were younger, it had been the only room she’d willingly seek out on her own after a time. Five had been so smug, the way his room had been separate from the pandemonium of their hallway. Six children with differing interests and strong personalities was a recipe for loud and listless afternoons and the relative quiet of Five’s bedroom had been something they both treasured.

When Five had left, it was sacred in the same way mausoleums are.

Now, it feels like a refuge in that it was practically the only room that doesn’t feel like it was passing judgment unto her and finding her lacking.

If it had been five years earlier, she would have hesitated to break the solemn air that seemed to decorate Five’s empty room. But she isn’t, so she eagerly toes her shoes off and drapes herself over the bed the first chance she gets.

God, she’s tired.

It has been four days and she already feels distressed and oddly sore. Ants seem to have made its way under her skin but she can’t claw at her arms and her back quick enough to catch them. Her head feels clogged and all she wants to do is lie down but she knows that would only make her feel worse.

She places her suitcase and her backpack down on one corner and falls back on the bed, contemplating her options.

Is it worth going down for a warm mug of water? She could just power walk. Then again, she might run into someone. No, she’s too tired to keep track of what she’s supposed to remember.

She decides against going back downstairs.

Being in Five’s old room feels stepping into another planet. It’s quiet. It feels removed from everything else from the house, a thought that brought as much comfort as listlessness.

She’s really here, isn’t she? After everything they’d been through, despite all of it, she’s still here. _Lifetimes_ away from her family.

She isn’t new to this. God knows all her other solo missions had gone well enough. She certainly got into a lot of scrapes but she pulled through on her own. But it _is_ the first time she really thought about how much time has passed. How much has changed.

And is changing.

And will change.

She stares at the faded teal of the walls like it would reveal…something to her. They had no wisdom bestow to her.

Maybe that’s for the best.

The lassitude stays with her, though.

They need to figure out a network of some sort if they wanted to go back to their own realm. Mapping out all the accessible realities in the multiverse is a step in that direction. But after four solid revolutions (a rough equivalent of days, since she’s been traveling through space-time and the passage of time wasn’t linear for her) she found that she’s more than ready to just find a place to settle in. The constant time-traveling had nothing on dimension travel—a feat they mainly achieved through necessity, serendipitous misfortune, and a combination of Five and Ben’s powers.

It’s still good that she has the briefcase. Jumping through dimensions unbridled was like traveling through an expressway on foot: unless you have a death wish, you need the extra padding.

Would be a shame if something happened to her in this timeline.

Out of all of them, she had the best shot at surviving first contact with the surrounding universes. It had been why she’d volunteered in the first place. It also helped that she generally doesn’t attempt to kill people on sight, lessening the likelihood of anything remotely similar to paradox psychosis(a feat that even Allison had trouble achieving).

It had been on one of the first missions she went on, when she had wished she had Five or Ben with her instead. Unfortunately—or perhaps, _fortunately,_ depending on who you ask—both men had to stay outside of the pocket dimensions they opened in order to guide them through. It had worked out in the end but left her grateful that Allison had been nowhere near as difficult as Five would have been.

It had been the first of many missions to come, she remembers, but no other mission was as important as this one.

An above all reason, Vanya _wanted_ to go on this mission.

Mapping out the cosmos? The several threads of reality? It would give them a shot to start over. To build a life where they weren’t in a constant state of travel. Find a place where Claire already existed so Allison doesn’t have to tear herself over and over again over the baby she keeps losing. A life where they could just settle and be safe? It was the _most_ important mission she would ever run, and if she closed her eyes she could pretend that the pressure she felt was determination.

Besides, she’s the only one who had enough power to find her way back in case she got stranded.

Maybe even resolve a few of her issues along the way.

She rummages for something to change into before she starts unpacking. She only brought a week’s worth of spare clothes, seeing as she didn’t have much of an idea where or when she’d land. Clothes, she found, were easy enough to acquire from wherever or whenever she would land. It made no sense to have more taking up space.

The leather briefcase is similar to the model Five used to work with from the Commission, retrofitted with navigational panels and a communication system so that when Vanya opens it, it looks like one of those briefcase laptops from the cheesy spy films they’d used to sneak out to watch as kids. (Five must have thought so, too, because it even came with its own self-destruct button.)

She starts booting it, eager to find some semblance of connection to her family.

It’s been long enough that she’s starting to miss them. It feels like forever. She watches the screen come to life and wait for the windows to load, her last conversation with her family filling the screen using a transcription program she’d installed a few weeks prior:

>   
>    
> 
> 
> [ **REV 1** ]
> 
> 00 00 00 04 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger. Clock.
> 
> 00 00 00 13 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger. We got a roll program.
> 
> 00 00 00 15 **00.01**
> 
> Roger. Roll.
> 
> 00 00 00 34 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roll's complete and the pitch is programed.
> 
> 00 00 00 44 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> One Bravo.
> 
> 00 00 01 02 **00.05**
> 
> White Violin, the Boy. You're good at 1 minute.
> 
> 00 00 01 06 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger.
> 
> 00 00 01 54 **00.04**
> 
> The Boy? Really, Five?
> 
> 00 00 01 57 **00.01**
> 
> _Seance_. Codenames.
> 
> 00 00 01 58 **00.04**
> 
> Thought you hated them.
> 
> 00 00 01 59 **00.02**
> 
> Big guy’s right. This isn’t a secure line. We don’t know where the signal is going and who can pick it up.
> 
> 00 00 02 03 **00.04**
> 
> What? How many people are going around calling themselves Five? It’s not like it’s any better. He doesn’t really have a name.
> 
> 00 00 02 17 **00.07**
> 
> If he doesn’t feel like his name fits then that’s his business.
> 
> 00 00 02 19 **00.04**
> 
> I looked into that actually. Hey, did you know you’re named after a Russian nuclear warhead?
> 
> 00 00 02 44 **00.01**
> 
> Even more reason to use the codenames.
> 
> 00 00 02 55 **00.05**
> 
> Stand by for mode 1 Charlie.
> 
> 00 00 02 59 **00.05**
> 
> MARK.
> 
> 00 00 03 13 **00.05**
> 
> Mode 1 Charlie.
> 
> 00 00 03 15 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> One Charlie.
> 
> 00 00 03 17 **00.05**
> 
> White Violin, this is the Boy. You are GO for staging.
> 
> 00 00 03 19 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Inboard cut-off.
> 
> 00 00 03 28 **00.05**
> 
> We confirm inboard cut-off.
> 
> 00 00 03 32 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Staging.
> 
> 00 00 03 36 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> And ignition.
> 
> 00 00 03 44 **00.05**
> 
> 11, the Zoo. Thrust is GO, all engines. You're looking good.
> 
> 00 00 03 52 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger. You're loud and clear, Zoo.
> 
> 00 00 04 01 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> We've got barrier SEP.
> 
> 00 00 04 04 **00.05**
> 
> Roger. We confirm. Barrier SEP.
> 
> 00 00 05 21 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Rift's gone.
> 
> 00 00 05 25 **00.05**
> 
> Roger. Rift.
> 
> 00 00 05 27 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Looking like a GO to me, Zoo.
> 
> 00 00 05 28 **00.05**
> 
> This is the Zoo. Roger. Out.
> 
> 00 00 05 30 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Huh. That looks cleaner than I expected.
> 
> 00 00 05 35 **00.05**
> 
> 11, Zoo. Your guidance has converged; you're looking good.
> 
> 00 00 05 39 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger.
> 
> 00 00 06 00 **00.05**
> 
> 11, Zoo. YOU are GO at 4 minutes.
> 
> 00 00 06 03 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger.
> 
> 00 00 06 20 **00.05**
> 
> Stand by the D-OBN to VPO capability.
> 
> 00 00 07 01 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Okay.
> 
> 00 00 07 04 **00.05**
> 
> MARK.
> 
> 00 00 07 09 **00.05**
> 
> D-OBN to VPO capability.
> 
> 00 00 07 42 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger.
> 
> 00 00 07 45 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> You sure sound clear down there. Sounds like you’re right across me.
> 
> 00 O0 08 19 **00.05**
> 
> Oh, thank you. You’re coming through beautifully, too. As always.
> 
> 04 06 42 05 **00.02**
> 
> Ugh. Get a channel, you two.
> 
> 04 06 42 08 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> We're doing 6 minutes. Starting the gimbal motors.
> 
> 04 06 42 10 **00.05**
> 
> Roger, 11. You're GO from the ground at 6 minutes.

She smiles, skimming past clusters of text that had more to do with the technicalities of her trip until she reached the latest logs:

>   
>    
> 
> 
> [ **REV 4** ]
> 
> 04 06 42 22 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Manual attitude control is good.
> 
> 04 06 42 24 **00.01**
> 
> Roger. Copy.
> 
> 04 06 42 25 **Zoo**
> 
> Juno, Minerva. You're GO for landing. Over.
> 
> 04 06 42 31 **00.01** (JUNO)
> 
> Roger. Understand. GO for landing. 3000 feet. PROGRAM ALARM.
> 
> 04 06 42 35 **00.05**
> 
> Copy.
> 
> 04 06 42 36 **00.01** (JUNO)
> 
> 1201
> 
> 04 06 42 41 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> 1201.
> 
> 04 06 42 58 **00.05**
> 
> Roger. 1201 alarm. We're GO. Same type. We're GO.
> 
> 04 06 44 45 **00.01** (JUNO)
> 
> 2000 feet. 2000 feet. Into the AGS, 47 degrees.
> 
> 04 06 44 51 **00.05**
> 
> Roger.
> 
> 04 06 44 54 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> 47 degrees.
> 
> 04 06 45 02 **00.05**
> 
> Juno, looking great. You're GO.
> 
> 04 06 45 04 **00.01**
> 
> Roger. 1202. We copy it.
> 
> 04 06 45 08 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> 35 degrees. 35 degrees. 750. Coming down to 23.
> 
> …
> 
> MODE CONTROL - both AUTO. DESCENT ENGINE COMMAND OVERRIDE - OFF. ENGINE ARM - OFF.
> 
> …
> 
> 04 06 45 52 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> 413 is in.
> 
> 04 06 45 57 **00.05**
> 
> We copy you down, V.
> 
> 04 06 45 59 **Zoo**
> 
> Spaceboy, Zoo here.
> 
> 04 06 46 04 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> **JUNO HAS LANDED.**
> 
> 04 06 46 06 **00.05**
> 
> Roger, Juno. We copy you on the ground. Got us turning blue there. Rumor can start breathing now.
> 
> 04 06 46 16 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> 04 06 46 18 **00.05**
> 
> You're looking good here.
> 
> 04 06 46 23 **00.04**
> 
> See any monkeys? Fish-people? Anthropomorphized entities of fear?
> 
> 04 06 46 25 **00.01**
> 
> Boy, cut his line.
> 
> 04 06 46 38 **00.04**
> 
> Oh, come on. She’s by herself there. I’m sure my riveting commentary’s better than sitting on her ass in silence.
> 
> 04 06 46 41 **00.05**
> 
> Any last words?
> 
> 04 06 46 47 **00.04**
> 
> Yeah. _The Kraken_ just took a massive dump—
> 
> 04 06 46 51 **00.07** (JUNO)
> 
> Okay. We're going to be busy for a minute.
> 
> 04 06 46 59 **00.01**
> 
> MASTER ARM, ON. Take care of the ... I'll get this ...
> 
> 04 06 47 03 **00.01**
> 
> Very smooth touchdown.

It has been ages since her first mission. It thrilled her, to no small amount, to be able to do this for them. But she could never get used to the feeling of missing her family. Idly, she wonders how long it’s been for them; if it’s in the middle of the afternoon for them or if they’re getting ready for bed the way she supposedly was meant to be.

Allison would probably be around if it were a reasonable hour. Klaus was hit-or-miss, seeing as he was usually the designated errand boy in a compromise between responsibility and his lifelong allergy to it. Diego was usually there in some capacity but he was usually designated babysitter to Klaus, who has surprisingly grown to be more responsible than any of them would have expected from him. No one quite understood how but the rest of the Hargreeves had found out that saddling the two of them together somehow kept both of them out of trouble.

Luther insists on taking shifts in rounds to monitor her progress through space-time (she’s since been more appreciative of her brother’s aeronautical and navigational prowess) while Five all but roots himself to the control tower whenever one of them had a mission.

She fiddles with the dials on one of the transducers built into the briefcase and takes it out, fixing it on the bedside table as she sets up the channel, trying to tune in to the frequency only they could possibly access due to the build of the device: station PRIM-8S.

It was about as sophisticated as ham radio but it got the job done.

“ _How are you settling in?_ ” Five’s voice came out tinny and removed through the speakers and Vanya could breathe again.

“Everything’s clear so far,” she says. “Made it to 2019— _our_ 2019, I think. The twenty-third of March. It’s just—so bizarre. It’s the Twilight Zone. But everything’s fine. Got here before the funeral though.”

“ _Sounds fun._ ”

Vanya smiles at his dry tone.

She makes a small humming noise. “Ran into Diego first. He seems…happy.” She crinkles her nose. He definitely isn’t but he could be worse. At least he’s still out for the night, probably busy on some vigilante quest. She is _not_ looking forward to breakfast tomorrow.

“ _Did something happen? You don’t sound very good._ ”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she tries to wave off. “I have the world’s worst headache and I’m trying to decide whether to eat or throw up first.”

“ _That’s the jetlag. You’re going to feel disoriented for the next twelve hours. There’s a notch in the lower-left side of the case. If you turn it forty-five degrees to the right there should be a compartment that’ll pop up with some chamomile and ibuprofen._ ”

God bless him for being an overbearing prick.

“Thanks,” she says happily, already feeling better. Digging through her stuff, she unearths a half-empty water bottle and a saltine cracker, forgoing the pill entirely.

“You know,” she says conversationally as she puts the water bottle back on the table and rolls to her side for a more comfortable position on the bed. “I forgot he used to wear his harness all the time.”

“ _The Batkid look? Wouldn’t have been dorkier if he’d tried dressing like Damian Wayne_.”

Vanya let out an amused noise but doesn’t call out his hypocrisy. It had endeared her to find out that in the aftermath of the apocalypse, Five had still shared much of the same boyish fondness for comic books. He’d been an avid reader when they were kids. It had taken some time and getting Five to relax and figure out who he was outside of the next task on the to-do list to prevent the universe from imploding was like pulling teeth, but Vanya had been glad to find out that some of his enthusiasm for things like that had survived.

“Makes you wonder what look he was going for at first,” she says, pretending to contemplate.

“ _Think he had a scrapbook somewhere with superhero looks? Coloring-in old cut-outs turning everything black if it didn’t feel edgy enough.‘_ Crime is out, velcro is in _’?_ ” He pitches his voice an octave higher, imitating one of the many headlines they used to see paired with Allison’s name. The effect was only marginally ruined by the lag in the signal.

“Maybe,” she says, smiling into the handheld receiver. “I think he mentioned his, uh…‘uniform’? Used to be bright blue.”

_“Like a bootleg Dick Grayson. Let’s just be glad he went with the leather. Imagine if he had his hands on spandex.”_

“Now _that’s_ an image. Thanks a lot. Not helping the nausea,” she jokes and waits a minute for his response. When it comes, it’s laced with unconcealed worry and she realizes her mistake.

“ _Have you eaten yet? You should really try it. Give you something to throw up, at least._ ”

Right. Nausea wasn’t typically part of the post-jump symptoms. Maybe she can excuse it as a combination of a migraine and her nerves?

He doesn’t push it, though.

“I know, Five,” she says fondly.

“ _Just saying. You have a notorious disdain for eating._ ”

It’s hard not to miss him like this.

She tries to think of an answer that wouldn’t count as lying but wouldn’t worry him.

“ _You at least made tea already didn’t you?_ ”

Bossy. If anyone had been eavesdropping they would think that he’s directing orders instead of genuinely asking, the tinny quality of his modulated voice only highlighting his brusque way of conversation.

If she weren’t well-versed in reading him by now, she wouldn’t be able to tell that he was concerned by the tone of his voice. Five had the uncanny ability to keep his voice level under any situation…with the exception of yelling at their siblings.

She wishes she could see his face.

“Uh, can’t. Can’t let Pogo catch me up past curfew.” She says lightly, like it was a joke, but the silence on the other end told her that Five wasn’t distracted.

She can almost picture him, hunched over a pile of hastily-drawn plans, frowning at his receiver with his eyebrows knit together in concern.

“But I will before bed. Promise.” She says, mainly to appease him. “How’re things on your end?”

It takes another minute longer to wait for his voice to come through the other side.

“ _Oh, you know…Ha…bout…_ ”

“Five?”

“ _drills…and making progress but…miss…_ ”

“Losing you a bit.”

“ _…piece of…damn…breaker…_ ”

“Five?” She says again.

“ _—nal strength is shit…Allison better…in fifteen megahertz…_ ”

She sighs. Connectivity is a roll of the dice when the distance for data to travel fluctuated.

She doesn’t know the exact data rate but it takes anywhere up to half an hour for an encrypted message to reach one side on a particularly bad revolution. More so, if it had audio. Since they were messing with spacetime, distance wasn’t exactly steady and there were pockets where it messages could be sent instantaneously while sometimes it would take twenty or so minutes to get a pingback.

It was easier to transmit data packets that occupied less bandwidth which meant that the moments she got to hear her family’s voices were limited and sporadic at best.

This is one of the reasons she needs the speech-to-text program in the first place. Reading the transcripts helped her piece together what would be lost whenever the signal dropped.

“ _—lo? Vanya, do you read me?_ ”

“Loud and clear,” she replies. She could hear the faintest hint of paper rustling under tides of static.

“ _It’s going to take a lot of energy to pull us through so get some rest. We’ll pick up in the morning_ ,” he says after a while.

“ _We’re entering polyphase so expect delays in communication for the next two revs. Just find Minerva and we’ll get there as soon as we can._ ” The ‘goodbye’ hung in the air. Unspoken in the slow, dodgy way of someone who was reluctant to part ways.

She does it for him.

“Thanks, Five. I’ll see you guys soon,” she promises.

“ _See you soon, Vanya._ ”

_Yeah_ , she thinks, staring up at the ceiling.

Soon.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Before y'all come at me, _yes_ I pieced some of that flight convo from the Apollo 11 lunar mission. No, ham radio isn't actually made out of ham. 
> 
> 2) This was surprisingly long for this fic. Did not expect that. Ended up liking it more than I thought I would but also ended up thinking about logistics more than I should. Think I'm starting to take this more seriously but I adamantly refuse to proofread this fic ever as that is the only reason why this one gets updated more quickly so if you see any typos...look away, maybe 😅
> 
> 3) This is probably my last update for this fic in this month. Gonna go try to churn out the next chapter of my other fic. See you next month, I guess! 
> 
> Tell me what you think in the comments and remember to take care of yourselves!🌸🌸🌸


	5. March 23 | 05:45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who follows this story! I'm going to try to resume weekly updates so please lower your expectations ❤️
> 
> The song in this chapter is Wish Upon A Storm by Jom Comyn and it's really good. It's on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOhWxEKtxFg)  
> and  
> [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Vfjq0cWKBxU11MFYG2zul?si=L_YHr_m7R2GKmPeOgcSP2w) and has been stuck in my head for a while now.

Vanya wakes up in segments.

First, when it’s pitch black.

Then a few hours after that.

Then what felt like minutes after that.

It wasn’t because of the nightmares this time, no. She has less of those these days. What troubled her in her sleep was the sheer discomfort of having to occupy a body.

No matter which way she rolled on the old twin-size bed, parts of her ached. The pain wasn’t enough to warrant alarm but it was just enough to be uncomfortable.

After a few hours of tossing and turning, there was nothing left to do but to admit defeat and jump on to an early start of the day.

_Absurdly_ early, mind you.

She blames the house.

Sometime between leaving home for good and going to university while having to rework her own pill-induced erratic sleep schedule to accommodate a job, her body clock went to shit.

She’s been getting better at it lately but she still has days when she needs to remind herself that the longer she stays under the covers to try and chase the last remnants of fitful sleep, the less she’ll like herself when she emerges from the cave she’d sealed herself into for the night.

By now, she’s old enough to know that it’s better to get ahead of herself than to feel behind herself for the rest of the day.

She knows this, in theory.

But somehow, just being back here brings back phantom memories of raid sirens blaring from the corridor, reawakening a long-dormant instinct that has her force herself out of bed to avoid the impending struggle to get to the bathroom first, even when the entire floor is deserted and the only sound that filled the silence came from her.

Benefits of lingering trauma, she supposed. Maybe she could have saved herself from more of her orchestra’s conductor’s disdainful looks if he had inspired the same fear in her as her twice-late father had.

She finds it easy to maneuver Five’s old room even without the lights on. Muscle memory helps her get from where the bed is to the door, avoiding the many odd nooks he’d keep his books in as a child.

It used to be something of a game to them, one they played very differently.

With Vanya, it was tip-toeing around the traps. Hide and seek. Trying to see how long she can remain undetected because it’s the only thing close to _actual_ superhero training that they ever let her in on.

With Five, it was a game of ambush. The goal was to keep them on their toes and waiting for the moment he decided to invade their space for his own amusement.

His room is very blue in the dead hours of the morning. It’s easy to imagine him jumping out the shadows like this, filling the space with even more bluish light.

She slips into the fuzzy slippers Grace had set out for her and shuffles to the bathroom, careful not to disturb the peace.

It was fortunate that Five’s room had access to a separate bathroom, saving her from how awkward it would be to have to run into Diego first thing in the morning. She hadn’t heard him climb up the dormitories last night but the idea of having to deal with him while he was on his batman bullshit before she’d even had breakfast was deeply unappealing to her.

Instead, she spends a good half-hour trying to wash away the grime and sweat of a bad night with soapy water that made her smell like she took a dip in a tub of vanilla and decided to rinse off with rosewater. Someone must have switched soaps from the last time she was here.

She feels like a new person when she emerges from the shower.

She rifles through the half of Five’s wardrobe she’d cleared for herself and picks out an outfit: a deep red sweater and a pair of tan pleated trousers.

It’s a good sweater, she thinks, inspecting her reflection in the tall mirror at the corner of Five’s room. A little baggy, sure. It was long enough to reach her thighs and completely cover her hands. If Allison were here, she might have berated her about it—something about looking more polished with a half-tuck.

Vanya doesn’t bother. It’s a good look on Allison, who was curvy and filled out in all the ways that made her a little self-conscious growing up, but Vanya already knows that it would only look clunky on her. She doesn’t really have it in her to try and keep up the charade of deliberate nonchalance.

She does roll up her sleeves, though, because she remembers a time when she would always keep them covered. It gives her a clean look and less like she’s swimming in fabric.

(It still feels strange, sometimes, but there wasn’t any more reason for her to worry about people looking a little too closely at her pale arms)

She smiles a bit at what she sees in the mirror. She looks—no, _feels_ comfortable. And taller, somehow.

(She doesn’t try to crowd in on herself. Not anymore.)

When she goes downstairs, she isn’t expecting anyone else to be up already, but both Grace and Diego are already in the kitchen when she makes her way there, the latter looking like he’s losing an argument to himself. He has his duffel bag set down in the chair beside him and frowns while he watches his robot mother rinse a frying pan in the sink.

He’s still dressed in full gear.

Vanya glances at her watch. **06:15 _,_** it reads.

_Guess he didn_ _’t get much sleep last night either_ , she thinks. From the folders peeking out of his bag, he’s probably been up for at least a few hours now.

When he catches sight of her, the shadows on his face grow darker and his expression transitions from a pensive frown to a curled snarl before settling on pointedly ignoring her.

Vanya takes it as a win.

Thank god for the early morning spell. Whatever hostilities he was capable of seemed to thaw with the morning lull. She doesn’t expect it to last but she appreciates having a little time to get something to settle her stomach with before she has to deal with all of that.

They maneuver the kitchen silently, with the same awareness of each other as two predators in the same grazing field. He pulls out the chair nearest to him and placing his bag on the other when she tries to sit at what was usually her end of the table, effectively taking up half of the space.

Vanya brushes it off. She has more important things to take care of, such as breakfast.

She eyes the food packages that lined the cabinets. Which of these would make her least likely to throw up?

“Vanya! Glad you can join us,” Grace says when she notices her, still with the unsettling dreamy look on her face.

“Good morning,” she greets back.

“You’re just in time. I just managed to talk this one into staying for breakfast. We mustn’t go for a run on an empty stomach.” She adds on as a friendly reminder.

Vanya really doubts that he’s in full gear for a morning jog but the glare he sends her way when she raises an eyebrow tells her he was more than ready to grab a banana and go for a run just to prove some kind of point.

Grace isn’t having any of it, though. She insists on sitting them both down for breakfast, pushing a perfect pair of eggs and bacon shaped to smile at each of them.

“Eat up.”

Vanya smiles politely, even though the idea of eggs sounds horrible to her. “Sorry, um. My stomach isn’t agreeing with me. I don’t suppose we have any tea…?” she asks.

Diego snorts but doesn’t say anything, only stealing her eggs like it was a crime to have her even come close to touching them. He eats them with gusto and, when Vanya wrinkles her nose in disgust, stabs the yolk and mixes it with the grease on top of the bacon before shoveling it all into his mouth in a way that was sloppier than she knows he usually eats.

Vanya looks at Grace to check if she noticed. She didn’t.

She has her back drawn to them, airy and confused. “Looks like we’re out of tea. I’ll have to pick them up at the market. You don’t mind ginger, do you, darling?” she says idly as she completely misses the pack of tea on where it’s always sat in the cupboards.

Vanya frowns. It hadn’t been easy, watching their supernanny slowly deteriorate. She’d forced herself to look away the first time around but now that she paid more attention, every little thing seemed off about her. Like she had a screw loose, possibly on purpose.

Diego’s up on his feet in seconds, snatching the box of Twinings and chucking it at Vanya, catching her by surprise.

“The spice rack was covering it.” It wasn’t. “S’easy to miss,” he says to Grace.

Grace smiles. “Such a helpful young man.”

Diego absolutely avoids looking at either of them, studiously Not Acknowledging it.

It’s a classic Hargreeves move, pretending it isn’t weird at all.

Then again, this was the guy that decided it was a good idea to get all suited up like a psychopath on a Saturday morning. It’s honestly a wonder that he hadn’t been arrested sooner, walking around like that. It was certainly a benefit from the reputation they built as kids that he forgot was a luxury when he landed in the 60s.

Vanya found it funny how he only started dressing up more like a normal person moments after busting out of a psych ward than he does on a regular basis. They all like to make fun of the harness (Klaus especially), but it really does look uncomfortable to sleep in, all strapped with knives like that.

Vanya entertains the thought of metal biting at his skin and how it could be one of the many reasons he looks like such a misanthrope so early in the morning, not because he’s forced to share a table with her.

It cheers her up.

Which, in turn, sours Diego’s expression _just_ a little more but it thaws when Grace puts music on the kitchen radio.

_“When you wait_

_for the perfect storm_

_The kind you used to dream for before when you were young_

_Somewhere in your mind,_

_blowing in a gust_

_Wear it if you must_

_but_

_drop it when you_ _’re done…”_

The music is calm and has a smooth tempo. It even feels a little nostalgic. Except this time, instead of audible instructions of how to conquer a summit or the symphonies of Tchaikovsky, it was all mellow records from…

“What are you listening to?” Vanya asks Grace with growing interest. A smile grows on her face. “Is this…indie?” It certainly doesn’t sound like one of Luther’s records.

“I know it’s a little… _modern_ ,” Grace pronounces carefully despite the extra dimple on her cheeks, looking more present than she has during Vanya’s entire visit. “It has such a lovely beat to it, don’t you think? Luther has this station for oldies music that he likes to listen to but I like to tune in to this one every once in a while.”

“It’s nice,” Vanya reassures her.

For the first time in a long while, the android feels warm to her.

_“Blowing from a dream,_

_storming in your skull_

_What you thought was dull and empty was trying to make you full_ _…”_

“I like that it has elements of sixties soul,” Vanya comments. _Like you_ , she doesn’t say.

Grace seems to hear her either way, looking pleased.

_“…older than you know…”_

She tilts her blonde head to one side, eyes wide and dreamy. “I know he prefers classical but I’ve found that music from the Space Age does occasionally lift his spirits. Must be all those rockets,” she adds the last bit a little too chirpily.

_“The ni-i-ight_

_is sho-orter_

_than it was_

_only two nights ago_

_And I-I-I-I_ _…am…o-o-older_

 _than I have ever been before_ _…_

_…like every sweater you have ever worn…_

_…when you wish upon a storm…”_

There’s no mistaking who she means. Luther doesn’t like classical music.

Vanya knows this because she’s tried talking to him about music once when he picked up his first vinyl until it became obvious that he was only trying out the ones he thought were from their foster father’s age so he could relate to him more.

Diego stabs the eggs on his plate with a little more force.

_“…as I walk_

_to my perfect home_

_Shivering to the bo-one_

_and_

_glad to be alo-one_

_In my little place,_

_in my little head_

_I could just as well be dead,_

_I could not be here at all_ _…”_

Which—if Grace was mixing up her database now…if it wasn’t all part of the ruse she had with Sir Hargreeves’s death—really means that whatever bug or corrupted file she caught before was getting worse.

Not exactly a great thing when said nannybot could technically count as domestic artillery.

_“…so as you sober up,_

_make order in this gale_

_An order sent from heaven,_

_from a coma to a cell_

_Storming from a dream,_

_a dream that you were born_

_A figment of a sweater that you pray for when it's_ _torn…”_

_She really,_ really _needs a tune-up,_ Vanya thinks as Grace lists off her dead dad’s itinerary and how it would shape her own day ahead.

Ideally, it would be Five or Luther who’d do it, but Five was nowhere near and this version of Luther had yet to get over his feelings over tinkering with what he thought of as Sir Hargreeves’s personal belongings.

_‘Or you could just get Pogo_ ,’ a voice in the back of her head nudged at her. ‘ _Get this whole charade over with_.’

_‘Fuck Pogo_ ,’ another vehemently replied.

It was too early for her to even think about dealing with Pogo right now.

_“…when you wish upon a storm…”_

“—…and get oatmeal while I’m there. Wouldn’t have expected that. My Number Seven hates bland food,” Grace remarks. “Children change so much when they’re away from home…” She trails off, a gloomy disposition settling on her shoulders before her perpetually-peppy protocol kicks in.

Vanya blushes.

“I’m just feeling a little peaky,” she tells her. “And I wasn’t _that_ bad.”

Grace makes a dissenting hum in response, taking her grocery bag out from one of the drawers.

“Are you going out now?” Vanya asks while Grace searches for her purse.

“Just for a bit, darling,” she replies vacantly.

The stores don’t open until eight, save for a few bakeries and the occasional bodega.

“Are you going by yourself?” Vanya presses, not liking the idea at all. She misses the way Diego stiffens, alarmed by her interest in Grace. “Maybe I should go with you.”

“That’s nice, dear. I can find my own way though. Been around the block more than a few times,” Grace waves away her concerns for the wrong reasons at the same time that Diego scoffs from the table. Loudly.

“Yeah. Because we need help from _you_. Playing up the good little girl act much?”

Vanya’s lips thin down to a line. “What’s that supposed to mean.” It wasn’t a question as much as a dare.

Diego doesn’t even hesitate.

“You’re so full shit,” he sneers at her.

“If you had even an _ounce_ of decency, _you_ wouldn’t show your face here,” he points his butter knife at her, punctuating his displeasure.

“I wouldn’t go _anywhere_ within a foot of her,” he says to Grace. “She’s probably just waiting to get a testament out of you like the snake she is.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a snoop. I’m not,” she stresses loudly over his continued skepticism because she isn’t. Wasn’t.

She might have aired out the family secrets but faint as the memory is, she at least knows that she didn’t go out of her way to _spy_ on her siblings to make a quick buck.

Semantics. It wouldn’t fly by Diego, who’s already itching for a fight, waiting for her to point out that it wasn’t her fault that she was in the middle of it all.

She could already hear the argument.

“I didn’t sell out.”

_But she kind of did. Even if money wasn't_ _the point._

“I didn’t ask to get adopted just to get under your skin.”

_Neither did they but they kept it in the family, didn't_ _they?_

“How is it _any_ different from when Klaus pawns off our stuff or when Allison does interviews on _national television_?”

Because it’s their trauma to claim, not yours.

_Because they expected better of you. They expected **nothing**_ _of you._

_How dare you hit them where it hurts?_

_What right do you have to pull them down to your level?_

_Who are **you** to show everyone how **rotten** and **twisted** their perfect gods are?_

Once, she might have even said that exactly that.

“And I wouldn’t do that to Mom,” she says instead, eyeing Grace’s current state. Diego’s glare only hardens.

“Oh, but you’d do it to _us_?”

“And second,” she pushes on, pretending not to hear him.

“It’s _groceries_ , Diego.” She smiles a little, trying for a little humor to lighten the mood. “It’s not like I can whip up a manuscript in the middle of a supermarket.”

“Unless you have any riveting opinions about canned peas?” She teases at Grace but her old caretaker remains unresponsive. The silence stretches and watches the joke fall flat, dying a slow and miserable death. Diego fixes her an unimpressed stare so intense that part of her almost wished he’d go back to glaring at her, embarrassment pooling in her cheeks.

Well. At least the feeling of being pathetic is familiar.

Why did she want to do this alone, again? It would have been easier if she had someone with her.

Jesus.

Vanya falls silent, overcome with longing for the camaraderie she already had with her brother in a different life.

Grace jolts.

“What’s wrong? You look upset,” her eyebrows knit together while she seemed to be trying to piece together new information. Her eyes land on Diego and take on a chiding tone.

“Don’t take that tone with your sister. It just gets a little empty here without you kids and now it’s all…”

She waves her hand vaguely, genuinely upset.

She isn’t making much sense but it’s enough for Diego to pull back a bit, placing a consoling hand on her arm.

“I’ll make cookies. That should cheer everyone up!” She decides in the same fraction of a second. The shift in tone is jarring, but she smiles, pleased with her action plan. She pats down the front of her apron and swivels around, presumably to look for her grocery bags.

When she leaves, Vanya could see how visibly relieved Diego is and hurts a little.

_He really didn_ _’t trust Grace around any of us, did he?_ She thinks.

Then again, they didn’t really give him much reason to.

Despite appearances, Diego has always been the optimist out of them. He was quick to hope, which meant that he was also quick to get disappointed. And when he was, he was quick to wear that betrayal like a brand, carrying it with him for as long as his stubbornness allowed.

Maybe she could start there. Somehow. She has a day and a half left. She could probably find the time to have a serious chat with him while she keeps an eye out for Minerva, patches Grace up, and prepares to break the impossible news of Five’s impending arrival to a group of people who now had even less reason to listen to her.

“Can’t we just get through this week?” Vanya couldn’t help but ask.

Diego startles a bit, like he’d forgotten she was even there.

He opens his mouth but stops himself, weighing his words before bringing them to life.

“I’d get out of here if I were you.”

He stalks off, bag in hand, leaving her in an empty room with only music from an old radio and cold tea to keep her company.

Just like old times.


End file.
